


The Evesham Station Affair

by ApprenticeofDoyle



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Video Game Series), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes: Crimes and Punishments (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Game!Holmes's love affair with dry wit, Game-Canon Story Fusion, Holmes and Watson are very Married (TM), M/M, Mild Game Canon Divergence, Mild Peril, Post-Reichenbach, Racist Attitudes, Sexual Content, Watson is a saint but a sassy one, dark themes, no game knowledge necessary to read (just canon) :), turning gay subtext into text :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26165737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApprenticeofDoyle/pseuds/ApprenticeofDoyle
Summary: On a return journey home from a countryside convalescence, Holmes and Watson attempt to board a train that never arrives at its destination.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 26





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinawiththeglasses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinawiththeglasses/gifts).



> Hello! this is a gift for my friend and holmie @tinawiththeglasses, as part of our vow to put some damn game!holmes fics on this site. this was just a chance for me to have fun with my favorite case from Sherlock Holmes: Crimes and Punishments--'Riddle on the Rails'. It's dark as hell and so moody that I HAD to give novelizing it a shot. As such, this fic will borrow/paraphrase dialogue frequently. :)
> 
> For insight, game!Holmes and Watson are their own unique entity--very sassy, occasionally silly, and they get into some ludicrous cases. I've tried to emulate their characters as best as I can, while also blending in some additional canon elements and romantic fluff, because--well, this is me we're talking about. i highly recommend playing the game before reading this fic, so I don't spoil anything! <3 I also make fun of a few game oddities in the text, so understanding references might give you a fuller experience, but you don't HAVE to play the game to know what's going on here. so enjoy everyone! <3

**The Evesham Station Affair**

**_chapter one_ **

“This trip to the countryside will be good for you, Holmes.”

A skeptical hum traveled through the open bedroom door, and I refused to let it discourage me.

“Truly, a change of scene will do you a world of good,” I insisted, craning my head for a glance of him.

“I’m sure.”

I had not laid eyes upon Holmes in twenty minutes, and it was a length of time that was beginning to seem conspicuous. Idly, I wondered whether it was possible he was plotting escape.

“Fresh air,” I continued, listening for the tale of folding fabric and frowning at the sound of a strange tinkling instead. “Bird-watching...scenic walks...”

“Mmm, sounds intolerable.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Delightful, Watson, delightful.”

“Quite so," I huffed. Suspicion curling in my mind, I narrowed my eyes. Considering the effort it had taken him to agree to this venture, it would not have been completely impossible. Holmes could be so very wily when denied his way of things.

"Are you quite done, Holmes? I arranged for a cab at a quarter to seven and it should be here any minute.”

Holmes’s grunt of assent was quieter and distracted enough to draw me from my own last-minute packing on my desk. Snapping my medical bag shut, I migrated towards Holmes’s room. Half-expecting to find the man with a blanket-rope fastened to the bedpost and one leg out the window, I blinked in surprise at the sight of him squatting behind what appeared to be the largest French-door trunk I had ever seen.

“What on earth is that?” I asked, staring. “It’s enormous! I thought you were packing for our holiday, not a trip to America!”

“Just some provisions, my dear fellow, to occupy me in the lovely Staffordshire.”

“But what could you possibly—” I moved to his side to peer into the trunk’s shelves, only to freeze in disbelief.

“Holmes,” I said.

“A wholly practical assortment, I thought. And the trunk is quite handsome, wouldn’t you say? I came by it through a very interesting shop in Westminster—”

I buried my eyes in the heel of my palm. “You cannot be serious.”

Through my fingers, Holmes painstakingly tightened a strap around a row of glittering bottles. “Its weight and dimensions will not succeed the limits of a standard hansom, Watson, I assure you. Unless you planned to bring several additional bags of formalwear, to which I regret to inform you that Staffordshire is quite a rustic little district. You wouldn’t want to stand out so much amongst the locals.”

“The entire point of this trip,” I began, voice firm, “is to ensure you’re given a well-needed _break._ Rest, Holmes! Relaxation in the quiet countryside, without a single client or villain in sight—” I ignored him as he scoffed, at either my phrasing or the sentiment, “—and you’ll scarcely be resting if you bring your entire chemical lab along with you!”

“It’s hardly the whole of my lab materials,” Holmes said dismissively. “And you know as well as I what damage idleness brings upon the unused mind. _My_ mind, Watson, requires stimulation like my lungs require oxygen, and my experiments and archival research will be as gentle exercise is to overtaxed muscles. A doctor such as yourself could call it restorative.” This time, it was he who ignored me as I scoffed. “In the least, it will give me something to do on this... _invigorating_ visit to the country.”

I reached within the trunk and plucked a familiar blue phial from a shelf, watching Holmes’s mouth twitch as I did so. “And what “restorative” research will you be conducting with your hemoglobin-detecting solution, Holmes?”

“One never knows what insights could be inspired by the countryside,” Holmes replied placidly, a canny light flickering in his eyes, and I looked heavenwards for patience.

“Need I remind you why we are taking this holiday?”

“Because you’re an overzealous, if well-intentioned, physician who frets without need and recommends complete boredom as a medical treatment.”

“ _Because,_ ” I retorted, glaring at his thin, pale face as he failed to meet my gaze. “For two weeks you refused to eat properly on the heels of that nefarious forger, and you _collapsed_ upon me in the cab home from Scotland Yard!”

“I was tired, and so I slept,” Holmes replied, with that coolness which so often brought me to hair-pulling frustration. “And you have never denied me the bed of your shoulder before now, Watson.”

“I had to practically carry you inside,” I snapped, irritated to be making the same point I’d already hammered to ground several times over.

“And it was very gallant, my dear doctor.”

“Mrs. Hudson nearly had a conniption! Meanwhile _I_ could barely manage to drag you up the stairs! I will not get into this with you again, Holmes. We are going on holiday, you’re going to put on at _least_ a stone—”

“I thought you enjoyed my figure,” Holmes said dryly.

“—And you are going to catch up on a month of sleep. _Without_ experiments, or this ridiculous trunk. Heaven’s sake, Holmes, you’ve even packed _old newspapers.”_

“You know how I require the consultation of my archives for research, it is only rational I should like to take a few, prescient articles.” I crossed my arms, and looking up at my visible disapproval, Holmes’s expression shifted. He straightened from his perch on the floor, a lean tower rising to meet my eyes. “However...As agreed, I will do my utmost to recuperate under your watchful gaze. I admit that this last case has left me...wearier than most.”

The concession cooled the embers of my annoyance, and I dropped my arms. “I know, Holmes. I merely wish for you to get the rest you need.”

“And as always, I appreciate your concern, my dear fellow.” He ticked a dark eyebrow. “But I must insist on the mobile lab. It took a great deal of time to acquire a trunk that would organize my materials without rattling my phials with every bump in the road, and I would not see my efforts wasted.” As I opened my mouth, his face turned conciliatory. “Come now, Watson. Three weeks without stimulation and you shall _wish_ I had brought it.”

I sighed heavily, conceding the point. I could recall all too well Holmes’s morose coastline wanderings during the case of the Devil’s Foot; I had no desire to see him in such a depressed state any time soon. “Very well.”

“You are the soul of empathy,” Holmes hummed, swinging the trunk doors closed with a triumphant smirk. “At any rate, it shan’t be all experiments. I look forward to meeting Reginald once again, his recent letters speak of chance for proper debate.”

“Reginald the bee lover,” I said, echoing his earlier description of the man who had offered us guest lodgings at his Staffordshire estate. “He has hives, then?”

“Oh, many,” said Holmes, and for the first he appeared optimistic about our holiday plans. “I should be pleased to hear his point of view on colony growth in the region and the effect of local mining on larvae development.”

“Fascinating,” I managed, and his mouth twitched with a small smile that I could not help but return. He had not possessed the energy to smile in so many weeks, since that damnable forger had taken so much of his time and focus, and I could almost see the full spirit of the man returned to those smoke grey eyes at last. I felt, not for the first time, deeply grateful he had finally agreed to this trip, and that he had received invitation recently from a colleague to visit somewhere removed from the city's relentless stressors.

“I shall endeavor not to bore you so,” Holmes said, reaching for his travelling coat on the rack beside his wardrobe. “But I cannot speak for good Reginald, I’m afraid. The man does have a tendency towards the prosaic.”

“Wonderful,” I deadpanned, before shaking my head. “I shall be fine, Holmes. Any holiday with you is one to enjoy.”

Holmes turned to me, blinking, his attention honing on me with narrow, but not cutting, intensity. In his eyes, thought moved in visible grey waves, then his noble brow smoothed in an expression almost approaching regret. 

“I understand it has been a considerable period, since we’ve spent proper time in each other’s company.” The words were said at a low, tentative volume. “Our last outing at Simpson's was five weeks ago, and I realize I have been...significantly preoccupied since then.”

“We shall have ample time for ourselves on this trip, Holmes,” I said gently, taking the hesitant observation for the apology it was. “But your health is my primary concern.”

Deliberately, Holmes stepped into the space between us, eliminating all but inches. “I have been lax,” he said. A muted, tender fondness glimmered in his eyes. “With my own welfare, true, but in other respects as well.” The corner of his slender mouth curled, and I felt my face suffuse with warmth as his head craned downwards towards mine. “I apologize, my dear Watson, for the inattention.” 

“I will accept your apology,” I said playfully, overjoyed to see this side of Holmes emerge after weeks of total, committed criminal focus. “But only upon evidence of new habits.”

“I shall aspire to provide,” Holmes said, dipping his head enough I could feel the heat of his skin radiate against mine. Chin tilting upward, mouth parting for his, the sudden sound of footsteps had the both of us pivoting on our heels towards the sitting room.

“Mr. Holmes? Doctor Watson?”

Blushing, I buried a bashful chuckle in a cough as we left the privacy of Holmes’s bedroom. “What is it, Mrs. Hudson?”

“A visitor for you, Mr. Holmes.”

_Wonderful,_ I thought despairingly. “But the cab will be here any minute!”

Holmes, to my chagrin, looked intrigued. “Who is it, Mrs. Hudson? Did they give a name?”

“One would think my relation would be permission enough.”

I blinked as from behind Mrs. Hudson, a large, rare figure emerged from the hall to fill the door-frame.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Mycroft Holmes said, his brisk voice twisted with that quintessential, stooped quality of an older sibling beholding the younger. It had been several months—the evening we located the Bruce-Partington plans—since I had last seen the elder Holmes. For the most part, he appeared precisely as he had then: substantial in dimension, in every respect, dressed in pristine business-wear with a finely brushed hat atop a head of hair gone white. However, in the shadow of the door frame, I thought that his face held a layer of strain it had not possessed before, fatigue pulling at the crow’s feet rounding his mouth and eyes to exaggerate the man’s years.

“Mycroft,” Holmes replied. “What a...charming surprise.”

“I did telegram ahead,” Mycroft harrumphed, sidestepping a retreating Mrs. Hudson into the sitting room. 

“Did you?”

“Ahh,” I managed. “My doing, that you did not receive it.” I shifted where I stood, mildly embarrassed but unapologetic. “I had all the post gathered by Mrs. Hudson to be read at a later date.”

“So we were not deterred from our holiday, no doubt,” Holmes said, eyebrow raised. He inclined a head to the mantle, where his letter opener lay bereft of any speared post. “You have recruited our landlady into your scheming. How underhanded, doctor.”

“Only you would cast the concern of others as scheming, little brother,” Mycroft said, visibly amused, before his face returned to its solemn cast. “Regrettably, I must sabotage Doctor Watson’s valiant attempt to keep you from an early grave. Queen and country demand it.”

I had barely opened my mouth to voice resistance to this before Holmes beat me to the task. “I know why you’re here, Mycroft, and what you have me do. But as I told you in your first entreaty for my assistance, I am hardly an agent of her Majesty. You’ve dozens of loyal operatives willing and prepared to help you in this matter. My own expertise is neither needed nor required, and my methods would be wasted on such...government busywork.” The last was said with no little distaste.

“I respectfully disagree,” Mycroft said pointedly, leaning heavily on his walking stick. “I would not have come all the way from Diogenes to interrupt your holiday plans if I was not certain your skills would prove imperative to the solving of this problem.”

Holmes waved a hand. “I’ve no interest in politics. Or domestic issues.”

“I'd hardly describe terrorism as a domestic issue,” Mycroft impressed, scowling.

“Terrorism?” I echoed, alarmed.

“My brother exaggerates,” Holmes interjected. “No acts have been carried out. Only threats. And I assure you, the government Mycroft represents receives no shortage of those.”

“They pose a credible risk to our offices, Sherlock,” Mycroft rumbles, chastising. “I can determine as much myself—”

“Precisely, and you should hardly need me for the rest. You’ve identified their motivations by now, undoubtedly—you are just as, if not more for your experience, capable as I am in that respect. With little effort I am confident you could ascertain their target, and set a proper trap to neutralize them. For such a task you need a handful of competent men—which should only be a moderate difficulty in your line of work—and a few loaded pistols. You do _not,_ however, need a mind such as mine.”

Mycroft sighed, his mountainous shoulders bending down to form a summit. “You are capable of infiltration the likes of which most agents are not, and you well know it. The Prime Minister is becoming...concerned, and my work becomes so much more tedious when he is displeased.”

“I hardly concern myself with the _mood_ of the Prime Minister,” Holmes said baldly.

“ _Sherlock—”_

“Mr. Holmes,” I interrupted, before a row between the country’s two greatest minds could wage war in my sitting room. “Forgive me, but I must be blunt. Your brother _needs_ this holiday." Mycroft opened his mouth, but I cut across him. "And as his doctor, I insist upon it. Another stressful case without respite could damage his health irreparably.” 

At my words, Mycroft’s frown deepened, carving caverns into the sides of his mouth. Sensing the possibility of bringing him to my side, I summoned the first compromise that came to mind. “Is it possible that this case could wait until our return? Your agents could have that time to do what you deem necessary, and if you should still need Holmes in three weeks...” I trailed off deliberately, knowing better than to promise Holmes’s cooperation on anything. In the corner of my eye, Holmes's churlish expression justified my doing so.

Pressing his lips together, Mycroft tapped his cane with wrinkled consideration. A beat, and the great man sighed, bowing his head. “Despite appearances, Doctor, I do care for my brother’s welfare. But as transcriber of his many successes, you acknowledge his talents are of immeasurable use in moments of crisis.”

“Without rest and recuperation, those talents are at permanent risk,” I replied, meeting the elder Holmes’s prying, familiar grey eyes with the full run of my surgeon’s bluster. “If you want your brother’s attention on this affair, then you shall have to wait until he is fit for it, and that is quite final, sir.”

Mycroft lifted a whiskery white brow at me, his Holmes-grey gaze digging into me almost as if evaluating my very center. In the corner of my eye, I could see Holmes looking at me, attention fixed on my face with a faint expression that I could only call smug.

“You’ve quite the physician on your hands, brother,” Mycroft said slowly, and he sighed. “I suppose I should be thankful there is at least _someone_ willing to tend to your health.” Like a heavy sail in wind, he leaned back on his heels, grip twisting on his walking stick. “I concede to your duty of care, Doctor. The investigation can indeed proceed without my brother.” His flinty eyes narrowed. “For a few weeks, at least.”

“Good,” I said shortly, shooting a quelling look at Holmes as he opened his mouth to speak.

“But I shall be returning when he is well,” Mycroft finished, rounding on his visibly unrepentant brother. “This is more important than your typical criminal fascinations, Sherlock. The lives of our officials and citizenry could well be at risk, and I won’t abide by your pickiness.”

Holmes, in a rare display of vivid boyishness, rolled his eyes. “We shall see, brother. But for now you will have to see us off, or Watson will be forced to take drastic measures.”

Almost on cue, Mrs. Hudson’s voice flew in from downstairs. “Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson! Your cab is here!”

“Let’s be off,” I said hurriedly, eager to be on our way before we could truly be waylaid. “We’ll be late for our train at this rate!”

“You needn’t worry, doctor,” Mycroft said. “The train conductor has been left instructions to leave seven minutes later than scheduled. Your seat is in the fourth car, it will be waiting for you when you arrive.”

I blinked rapidly as at my shoulder, Holmes again rolled his eyes. "How—"

“I anticipated my brother’s stubborn nature would make an appearance,” Mycroft explained. He lifted an eyebrow as Holmes swept off towards his room, before returning his gaze to mine. “In the future, I shall be more mindful of yours.” I bit my cheek, trying not to smile with minor pride, and Mycroft proffered a small smile of his own. “Take care of my brother, Doctor Watson. Do see he eats properly. He looks thin.”

“You’re one to discuss proper eating,” Holmes chided, tugging out his trunk from his bedroom.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock. What the devil are you dragging about, an entire wardrobe? It’s Staffordshire, not the blasted frontier.”

* * *

_three weeks later_

“What a gloomy night,” I said unhappily, shivering as the evening fog pooled around our knees. “What are we doing out here, Holmes? It was warmer in the waiting hall.”

“Our train should be here any minute, Watson,” Holmes said. He peered down the turnstile, arms crossed against his chest in his dark wool coat. “The trainmaster said as much, and I have no desire to wait in line any longer than is necessary.” In the faint light of the station lamps, I could see his breath cloud through the thick, cashmere confines of his scarf. Holmes had a constitution that was notoriously sensitive to the cold—and as he so childishly insisted, the country air—and he'd been bundled up for nearly the entirety of our holiday, even inside our host’s aristocratic lodgings on the Staffordshire estate. I was hardly one to discourage him; the more time Holmes spent inside swathed like a child with a cough, the better he could recuperate his energy and good health. After three full weeks of reluctant feeding, less-reluctant rest, and astonishingly dry bee husbandry, I was pleased and proud to see Holmes nearly restored to his former self. I had no desire for chilly weather to chip away at his progress, so I had insisted upon his wearing scarves and gloves for the journey home. Holmes, in a streak of uncharacteristic indulgence which had served to mark our holiday as the most peaceful in my recollection, had obliged.

As much as I had loathed the hours of academic discourse on beekeeping, I had deeply enjoyed our holiday on the whole. The time I had spent with Holmes had been restorative for more than just his health; it had done our partnership its own share of good as well. Even in Baker Street, we could not be as we were during those unbroken days in the country. Without Reginald’s presence, we had the run of the estate, and a level of privacy the likes of which I had never experienced with Holmes before. Our rooms had, by stroke of luck, been adjoined, so we had done as we pleased without fear of interruption or circumspection. Three weeks of stolen intimacy, I found, had replenished stores within my heart that I had barely realized needed filling. I had never felt so at ease as I did waking up in Holmes’s room at his side, my arm cast across a torso that had finally regained healthy weight, his quiet breaths a balm on my soul as his body recounted lost time by sleeping in.

Yes, I would miss Staffordshire. But eventually Holmes’s mobile lab and bees failed to stimulate his carnivorous mind, and we were homebound. I, myself, was thrilled he had managed to endure the country as long as he did.

Squinting in the dark as I rubbed my arms in the cold, I sighed in relief at the flickering of a distant light in the inky darkness. “At last,” I said longingly. "I do hope they'll serve tea."

The station master lifted up his voice in a bellow to confirm the herald of my relief. “Attention! The train is arriving at the station! Please stand well away from the platform edge!” The shriek of a whistle broke the air, shrill and long.

“I’ll fetch the bags,” I said, and grimacing, rolled my shoulders in preparation. “...And your blasted trunk.”

“As appreciative as I am of your gentlemanly nature, Watson, I _can_ in fact carry my own things,” Holmes said, eyes glimmering above his scarf. “Your healing techniques, as it turns out, have some merit...”

"Imagine that," I said drily, but faltered as suddenly, Holmes’s amusement disappeared like a doused candle. I turned, following his gaze to the track behind me, only to stare with confusion. Down along the rails, I saw the most peculiar sight: the spotlight of the train was flickering. Squinting in the fog, I watched as its yellow beam began to dissipate into the foggy night until finally, it faded away entirely.

“What the devil...?” I muttered. “Holmes—”

“Something is wrong,” Holmes said lowly, pulling down his scarf. “I can’t hear any sound from the incoming train.” With shock, I realized he was right. The night air was eerily silent, when I knew logically that if there was no sound of an engine, there should at least be the screech of the train’s brakes.

“I don’t understand,” I heard, and turned to see the old station master gawking down the tracks with disbelief. “The train...it’s gone!”

“Holmes,” I said again, my heart picking up the pace in my ribcage.

“Quick, Watson,” Holmes said urgently, and even in the low light I could see his eyes shining like stars. “We must fetch some lanterns and see for ourselves.”

The station master, joining us on the expedition, lent us the light we needed from the storeroom and soon we were hurrying down the turnstile, moving headlong into solid darkness as our lanterns dashed yellow light across the shining metal tracks.

“It must have stopped somewhere here,” the station master said, leading us through the misty night. The grass beneath our feet was black-green, wet with dew, and pebbled mud lined the edges of the rails. “Without braking, it should have blown right through, but—”

“Could it have reversed?” I asked, struggling for an explanation. The station master’s pace slowed, and he paused to shake his head, clearly bewildered. Beside me, lantern light spilled into the fog as Holmes bent his arm over the tracks, silently observing the dull metal with intent.

“Without pulling the brakes? S’not possible,” the station master said firmly, continuing to shake his head and stare off in the direction the train had been. “I can’t believe it...”

There was no doubt from where we were standing. The train was gone. Somehow, the very night had swallowed it away to nothing, with only the shriek of a far whistle and hint of light to suggest it had ever been there at all.

“Holmes...?” I said, turning to him for any semblance of explanation. He looked up at me, the lantern swinging by his bent head, and his grey eyes mirrored the shine of the metal tracks in the moonlight.

“There are no signs to indicate the train ran off the track,” he said, quiet and quick. “Nor are there any other traces...” He trailed off, and his mouth twisted into a thin, thrilled smile. “There is nothing whatsoever.”

I recognized that spark in his eyes, and that rare, enraptured smile. For a single moment, I grieved for the warmth of Baker Street, because I knew we were unlikely to enter it tonight as we’d planned.

“There are no clues, Watson,” said he. “But then, a negative result is also a result.”

“No clues,” I repeated, coming close to his side to whisper in confidence. “...And you are smiling.”

“I am wont to do so, on occasion,” he teased, breath white in the air. “And this is a very promising mystery indeed.”

“I take it I’m to inquire about this fine town’s lodgings, then?” I asked fondly, and his eyes glimmered with a delight that reflected affection into my own chest.

“My dear fellow, you read my mind.”


	2. II

**_chapter two_ **

The next morning found us at the only inn in the modest Evesham within walking distance of the train station. Holmes woke me in my twin bed—their double rooms featured beds regrettably too small for Holmes alone to stretch out on, nevermind for us to share—with a gentle, insistent shake to the shoulder.

“Tea,” I muttered, in lieu of good morning, and I knew that the mystery of the evening still lingered in its excitement when Holmes chuckled aloud.

“No time, my dear fellow, we must move while any evidence is fresh. I regret that we even had to wait until morning to investigate.”

“Nonsense,” I managed, shifting in my sheets to squint grumpily in the grey morning light. “We are both having breakfast, even if it’s just a cuppa and toast. I’ll not have you slipping into bad habits after all my hard work.”

In further testament to his good spirits, Holmes issued another low chuckle. “I suppose we can’t have that,” he said. “Very well. I agree to your terms, but only if you are ready to leave in no less than seven minutes, Watson. Your time starts now.”

Luckily, my experience in an army barracks still enabled me to rise and dress with speed, even if years of laziness had softened my other service habits. Winding a scarf around my neck as I made my way downstairs, I found Holmes sitting at a table in the inn’s dining hall, two piping cups of tea before him bookending a plate of buttered toast with marmalade.

“Good morning,” Holmes said. “And with a minute to spare. You never fail to impress, Watson.”

“You know my weakness for making bets, my dear fellow,” I said, propping my cane on a neighboring chair as I sat down and reached eagerly for my cup. “And I believe you owe me one breakfast, consumed posthaste.”

“I am a man of my word.” At that, he took a pointed sip of tea, and with somewhat less fervor, took a single slice of toast and nibbled experimentally, holding my gaze the entire while with one eyebrow raised.

“Two slices,” I instructed, eagerly digging into my own.

Holmes made a face. “Really,” he said, scowling. “I am not a child.”

I raised an eyebrow, but acknowledging he had been uncharacteristically tolerant of my nagging for an unprecedented period of weeks, I relented. “Only the one then. With promise we shall both eat again at _some_ point later today.”

Holmes sighed long-sufferingly, but his mouth twitched in a smile. “Very well.”

He left but a corner of crust uneaten under my keen observation, and then we left immediately for the station. The morning walk was brisk, waking me better than a cup of English breakfast had done. Evesham was a small enough burrough that Holmes and I could probably walk its entirety had we the day, and we made it to the quaint railway station in less than ten minutes. When we arrived, the place was empty but for the old station master, Mr. Everett, who looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink all night. We found him standing on the blustery turnstile, gaze cast out onto the tracks almost as if he expected to see the train pull up out of the sunrise.

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson,” he greeted, his elder face wan.

“Any word, sir?” I asked him.

“M’afraid not,” said he. “I sent out for Scotland Yard last night, but with all trains on the line cancelled until the train is found, there’s no telling how fast an inspector will get here from the city.”

“A shame,” Holmes said, and I bit the inside of my cheek to deter a chuckle.

“I can hardly believe it happened even now,” the station master said, shaking his head. “All those poor souls aboard...whatever could have happened to them?” He sighed heavily, clearly haunted by the mystery. “I’m very grateful the two of you decided to stay to investigate.” His eyes, webbed in the corners with age, briefly sparked with hope. “If anyone could get to the bottom of this, it’d be the great Sherlock Holmes, hmm?”

“I will do my best,” said Holmes, folding his hands together. “But for the sake of those aboard, I will not waste time, Mr. Everett. I believe you can be of help to us, as well.”

“Any way I can,” said the station master, spine straightening like a veteran of the armed forces.

“Excellent.” Holmes shifted in the wintry breeze, gathering himself protectively into his charcoal overcoat. “Then we must start with the train itself. Can you give us any details about it?”

“Nothing so very special about it...at least, not that I can recall.” Sighing, Mr. Everett self-consciously plucked lint from his spotless uniformed cuffs. “My memory s’not what it used to be, gentlemen. But if you need it, I’m happy to give you the train composition report. The train was the standard liner from Nottingham to London. Coal engine, with a first and second class, and a post-car.” 

“I see. I must ask you, sir, in the last few weeks, have you witnessed anything strange or peculiar? Anything out of place, or any unusual passengers?”

The man’s brow wrinkled in thought, and I dug my hands into my jacket to save them from the cold. It was so frigid outside I chanced a glance upward at the sky, half-expecting to see portents of snow on the horizon, but the sky was as pale and cloudless as a perfect summer day.

“Let’s see, I...well...I don’t know, sir. Unusual you say?” Mr. Everett tilted his head. “We did have a break-in, not too long ago. Queer thing, but I didn't reckon it had anything to do with this situation so I didn't mention it.”

“A break-in?” Holmes asked, focus priming like a hound with a scent. “A burglary, you mean?”

“Yes, sir. But not here at the station, sir. Down the way.” The station master gestured an arm south, pointed past the turnstile in the direction of London. “One of the railway warehouses, Mr. Holmes. It was burgled overnight, about four days ago.”

“And what was inside the warehouse?”

“Nothing of value, really, that’s the strange bit. A few hundred feet of standby rails and some spare parts. Wouldn't have been an easy task, to steal all of that...And why would anyone want to?”

“Why indeed,” Holmes hummed, fingers finding his chin. “Might we have your permission to look at this warehouse?”

“By all means!” said Mr. Everett. “I can fetch that report for you, while you take a look at it. The warehouse is just behind that gate, there, on the left.”

“Thank you, sir,” Holmes said, with genuine enthusiasm. “You’ve been most helpful.” He looked to me, his pale cheeks flushed a fetching pink in the cold. “Come, Watson.”

The two of us quickly moved where we’d been directed, past a small iron gate sectioning off a walled area just left of the train tracks. What we found, however, was surprising enough to draw me to stare.

“Good lord. When he said it had been burgled, I wasn’t expecting _this,_ Holmes.”

“Curious,” Holmes said, eyes alight. “The entire building has been disassembled.”

“Gone, down to the brass tacks,” I said, shaking my head. Where a small building clearly used to stand behind the gate was a foundation's bare skeleton, barely fifty square meters, with spare, ancient wooden beams pried from the earth were all that remained on a patch of wet earth.

The lack of a crime scene to investigate did not fill me with optimism, but my curiosity burned all the brighter. “This case becomes stranger and stranger, Holmes. First, someone steals a warehouse full of railway tracks, and then an entire train disappears almost a week later!”

“Distinct, but not separate incidents,” Holmes said, nodding to himself. He walked quickly towards the skeleton of loose boards, roof work, and workman’s tools. He walked spiritedly alongside what must have been its south wall, bending down to examine nearby tracks in the loose mud. 

“An opportunity to utilize my methods. Watson?"

Lifting an eyebrow, I joined his side and peered down at the long stretch of tracks at our feet. “Strange they're still here, Holmes,” I said, brow furrowing. “Quite deep, I should say.”

“Mmm,” Holmes agreed. “The recent rain has preserved the tracks in the mud. See how the horses were forced to dig into the mud to gain traction.” He pointed to where handfuls of loam had been kicked from the earth in piles near muddied hoof-tracks. 

“A heavy load, then,” I surmised. “Perhaps the rail company came to look at the scene of the crime, see what left there was to salvage? Maybe it was why the warehouse was disassembled—after the theft, what was left of it was needed for construction elsewhere.”

“Perhaps,” repeated Holmes, with less conviction. “An odd time to do so, you must admit—days after it was burgled, and the night before a train disappears.”

“You believe the burglary and the missing train are connected, then?”

“I have no evidence to prove it,” Holmes said guardedly, pressing his lips together. “But you know well what I think of _coincidences,_ my dear fellow.”

“Correlations, until proven connected,” I recited, smiling.

“Precisely,” he said, with a small smile of his own in return. “Without a warehouse to investigate, there is no other evidence left to find. Let us see what our station master has for us in his report about the missing train.”

* * *

“Here you are, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes quickly took the report and thumbed through it with energy, and I stood gratefully by the hearth in the station master’s office. My leg had the seasonal habit of barking like a mad dog in the colder months, and I had the feeling the day’s case would last longer than a mere few hours; if I wanted to be at all useful, I needed to take whatever moments of warmth presented themselves.

This particular moment would not last, however, as soon Holmes was tapping the master’s report with a gloved finger. “According to your report, good sir, there was a “special wagon” attached to last night’s train, destined for London. Do you know the details of this particular compartment?”

Mr. Everett shook his head from where he sat behind his desk, a cup of hot tea in hand. “All I know, sir, is that it was a highly secure car, ordered by a private party. They're generally to carry items of value, like luxury cargo. Those wagons have iron walls, you know, without any windows, and they are fitted with a complex key lock. But if you finger it for the reasons behind this mess, Mr. Holmes..." He tapped his hand on the desk. "I never heard of anyone getting into one that wasn’t supposed to, not in all my years as a station master.”

“Very interesting,” Holmes mused. “You have been most helpful, sir. One final question, if you’d permit me—was there anything exceptional about any of the passengers aboard the train?”

“Exceptional? Like officials, Mr. Holmes? I...I don’t believe—” The man abruptly cut himself off, blue eyes brightening in recollection. “Now that you mention it, sir, yes! There was something! I received a message yesterday from Bridlington station, I forgot about it with all of this missing train business.” He twisted in his seat, reaching for a pink slip of paper which lay beside an old-model telegram. “The train had been delayed on its way here because of an issue with the passengers, though what kind of problem, they didn’t say. It mentioned that a Mr. Robinson was located at Bridlington, and delayed with other passengers.”

“A delay, you say?” I asked, rapidly scribbling _"Mr. Robinson, Bridlington"_ in my notebook. 

“I believe you’re on the right track, Watson,” said Holmes. “Good sir, the directions to Bridlington station, if you please. I believe we may find valuable information there—if not pertaining directly to this “special wagon”, then at least its owner.” He turned to me, eyes bright. “We must head there as soon as possible.”

“I will fetch a cab—” And when he opened his mouth to speak, I steamed directly over him. “And we will be leaving your lab in our _rooms_.”

Holmes shook his head, disappointed. “To think I had hope you realized its value over our holiday. Very well, but I won’t hear your complaints should we be forced to waste time and return all the way here should we need to use it.”

“You managed without it before, and you’ll do so now. Unless you feel that convenience has weakened your deductive powers on foot?”

Holmes’s quicksilver eyes glimmered with amusement. “You wound me, doctor.”

"No, but your trunk will wound _me,_ if I'm forced to load it onto the rear of another hansom again in as many hours."

"Now you are simply being dramatic, Watson."

* * *

The taxi to Bridlington was swift, with Holmes and I sharing companionable silence as I looked over my notes for the case and he sat in thought. Over and over again, I envisioned the train from the night before, flickering from my sight as if it had been made an impermeable spectre. I’d never seen such a thing happen before, and as usual, I was absolutely burning with curiosity over what Holmes thought about it. And in his typical way, Holmes was stubbornly close-lipped around his own ideas of what we had seen, even at my prodding.

“I truly cannot say, Watson,” he said, eyes glittering with mischief. “It is beyond my powers as of yet—we need more evidence.”

“But you have your suspicions,” I cajoled, mouth twitching in a smile. “You always do, and you’re nearly always right.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear man,” Holmes said, with cheek that made him seem years younger.

“Sometimes, it does,” I teased, and Holmes hummed to concede the point. Grinning with no little affection, my insistence dissolved beneath the happiness which welled in me at seeing him in such spirits. As if sensing I had given up my needling, Holmes smirked in victory. Eyes scanning me, he abruptly moved to reach across the space of the cab, hands outstretched and leather palms up.

“Your hands, my dear fellow,” he said, knees knocking against mine as the cab swayed on the country road.

Somewhat confused, I obliged, only to find myself soften as his gloved hands took mine and began to rub them with economical care.

“For all your nannying over my health, you neglect your own so easily,” he said, and I found myself flushing at the combination of his arch gaze and gentle motions as he warmed my icy hands.

“I merely forgot my gloves,” I protested, smiling despite my best efforts. “I’m hardly _neglecting_ myself.”

“It is freezing outside,” Holmes said matter-of-factly, the supple material of his gloves sliding methodically against the bones of my hands. My hands were terribly grateful, yet the sensation of his deliberate fingers massaging mine served to warm more than those icy digits alone. The hands are deeply sensitive limbs of the body, and judging from the sportive look in Holmes’s eyes, he knew it well. “If _I_ had been the one to leave my gloves at the inn, you would have chastised me within an inch of my life, doctor.”

“ _I_ am not the one returning from convalescence,” I returned. “Nor am I the one who sniffles at the lightest breeze.”

“I do not sniffle,” Holmes huffed, and I rolled my eyes.

“Watson.” The amorous tint of his grey eyes faded into more solemn tones. “I saw you in the waiting hall near the fire. As an ardent student in the full range of your facial expressions, I can recognize when you're in pain. You will let me know, should we go beyond your limits today.”

I found myself scowling, and Holmes’s attention on my hands grew seemingly placating. “I will be fine.”

A wry eyebrow lifted in response. “The stubbornness of soldiers. One might consider it hypocritical, in certain circumstances.”

“Holmes,” I said warningly, and I almost regretted it when his motions over my hands stopped. He did not drop them, however, merely holding them in the space between us with an idleness that seemed subconscious.

“We have arrived,” he said, smoky eyes flitting to the window before returning to mine. “...I suppose we shall just have to keep an eye on each other, won’t we, Watson?”

“As always, Holmes,” I said, quiet affection replacing all other emotion in my voice, and he dropped my hands. Instantly, they felt colder, but within my chest, his touch had constructed a bonfire that would sustain me in the meantime.

Holmes stepped out of the cab and I craned my head to look up at the Bridlington station. A twin to its sister station in Evesham, it looked slightly busier if only for the more bustling town streets across from it. Above the station, cotton ball clouds were beginning to crawl against the sky, and the bite of the November wind had eased somewhat thanks to the welcome rays of the climbing sun.

“Let us attempt to locate this “special” passenger,” Holmes said, waiting patiently for me as I climbed from the cab, retrieved my cane, and paid our driver. 

“Mr. Robinson,” I recalled aloud, and Holmes nodded. The two of us made towards the station entrance, tugging the door open against the wind. I immediately melted in the warmth of its interior, where a fire crackled merrily in the waiting hall’s hearth. Unlike Evesham, some travelers milled about the inside, likely waiting for their fares despite the day’s cancelled trains. And some, I could not help but notice, appeared far from pleased.

“This is an absolute scandal! It’s always the same with these rail companies, no respect for the customer!”

The complaint, which had been seemingly aired to the entire waiting room at large, did not go unheard by my friend. Perking up like a collier, my friend alighted to the side of the irritated customer, who was standing beside a parcel of luggage with a foul expression of indigence on his face.

“Please calm yourself, sir,” said Holmes, in a voice as smooth as silk. I thanked God, not for the first time, that my friend was not in a business where his charms could bring ruin to anyone but criminals. “Pray, what is your concern?”

“Concern?” the man said. He threw his arms in the air with a great drama, evidently gratified to be listened to even as his green eyes burned with anger. “My _concern?_ I’ll tell you, gov! Last night, I was on the train heading home and along came some ridiculous ticket inspector, who started arguing my ticket was invalid! He made me and all the other passengers _get off_ the train! Like we all were some fare-skimmers using old tickets! I never been so insulted in my life!”

I stared. This was a man who had been aboard last night’s train?

“You were a passenger on the train last night? The train to London?” I asked, surprised. Holmes, naturally, did not seem to share my shock.

“Aye, I _was_ , weren’t you listenin’?” the man snapped, his young face twisted with annoyance. “That’s why I’m still bloody here! I’m filing a complaint about my treatment!”

“The ticket inspector made all the other passengers get off the train, you say?” I repeated, stunned. “The cars of the missing train were empty?”

“Missing train?” said the man, his ire retreating somewhat. “Aye, I heard it disappeared or something like it. Nonsense, I say, probably just took a wrong turn at a rail switch. Besides, it don’t concern me anyhow—me and my mates, we would have got off before London. And our tickets were valid, no doubt about it! And to top it all, the inspector gave everyone the boot—everyone but a cab of rich.” The man sneered. “Cuz o’course, their type don’t _need_ a ticket, do they? They don’t get suspicion, cuz of the money linin’ their pockets!”

“All were deboarded save one compartment?” Holmes said, eyebrow raised. “Sir, me and my companion are looking into the... _incident_ from last night. Any information you can give me about misconduct, or those involved, could be highly useful. Can you recall anything more specific about this fortunate group?”

The man’s face brightened at the implication that his complaints were finally being given credence. “Aye, sure.” His nostrils crinkled with distaste. “Hard to miss, they were. Foreigners. Spanish-looking toffs.” He leaned forward with a conspiratory air, eyes hard. “You know the type. The ones with snake eyes.”

Holmes’s face twitched, but otherwise, he said nothing. I had heard similar crude talk before in London, and I had little tolerance for it. I opened my mouth to say as much, but Holmes cut me a sharp glance.

“Anything _else,_ sir?” Holmes asked.

“Nah. Didn’t sit near their car. They were in the expensive seats, anyhow. Not for _my_ like.”

“Thank you,” Holmes said tonelessly, and spinning on a heel, he left the man and I followed him further into the waiting hall.

“Holmes,” I began, drawing near to his shoulder.

“Yes. Unpleasant as he was, that man just provided us with crucial information, Watson."

"All but empty..." I said wonderingly. It couldn't be coincidence.

"Save for the driver and a single compartment of rich, foreign men,” Holmes confirmed, dipping his head, and his voice rippled with intrigue. “It is _most_ curious.” He looked up at me, eyes sparkling. “This case really is the most exceptional way to end a holiday, Watson. I could hardly have wanted for better.”

“Whatever became of them?” I asked aloud, shaking my head. “The men in the compartment. To just disappear, along with an entire train…it’s unbelievable, Holmes.”

“We need more information,” Holmes said, visibly eager. “This case is much broader than it appears at first glance. And I believe I spy a man who may be able to grant clarity into some of its depths.” He inclined his head, and I turned mine to follow the angle of his gaze elsewhere in the waiting room, where a plump, eccentric-dressed man sat on a bench, his face layered with displeasure.

“Who—”

“No time to waste, Watson,” Holmes said, and bemused, I had no choice but to trail behind him as he approached the new stranger. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the man had unusual red hair down to his shoulders, going blond-grey near the mouth, and that his hat was the kind I had frequently seen on the cover of penny-farthing stories in bookstores, worn by adventurers in the Aborigines.

"Good morning, sir."

“G’day,” the man said. He did not look up at Holmes’s greeting, his disinterested gaze fixed disapprovingly behind us in the direction of the ticket office. “...To whom am I speaking?"

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. And this is—”

“Are you a representative of this damned railway company?” the man interrupted, voice going sharp as his attention was roused. “Because I have a complaint or two for you, sir!”

“We are certainly not,” Holmes said coolly, folding his arms. “We are—”

“In that case, Mr. Floams,” the man said scornfully, lifting a dismissive hand, “please excuse me, but I am not in the mood for idle chit-chat.”

“Mr. Robinson,” said Holmes flatly, and I lifted my eyebrows. The person from the telegram was this rude gentleman! I studied him more intently, wondering how Holmes had deduced his identity from a glance. Wealthy clothes, that was to be certain. Were those... _crocodile_ boots? I wondered. _Good heavens._

“Yes,” Mr. Robinson said, narrowing his eyes. “You know me?”

“Only of you, my good sir,” Holmes hedged. “We are with the police. I am leading the investigation of the disappearing train. It would help if you could answer my questions.”

The man’s animosity visibly ebbed, his pale brown eyes flickering with surprise and apprehension. “The police? You’re investigating the missing train?” His bearded mouth pressed together. “Fine. What do you want of me? I have nothing to hide!”

Holmes lifted an eyebrow. “I presume it was you who placed the order for the ‘special’ wagon, Mr. Robinson?”

“Yes. It was to transport my valuable prototype safely to London. It is a revolutionary device, sir! Capable of producing electricity for use in the home!”

“An electric invention?” I pursued, fascinated. “Are you an inventor, sir?”

“A businessman,” the man said proudly. “And an engineer. I’ve already found several potential customers for my invention, but I was very optimistic about the director's board of buyers who were travelling on the train last night.”

“A director’s board was travelling with you, sir?” Holmes asked, visibly intrigued. “Which company did they represent?”

“The Chilean “Barcazas” company. They were...” The man’s voice dropped in volume, his face layering with a distant emotion I could only label as fear. “They were on the train when it disappeared.” Fire relit in his gaze, ruddying his drooping cheeks. “With _my_ prototype!”

“I see,” Holmes said, as I furiously took notes. A missing Chilean director’s board and a unique electrical prototype. Things were beginning to take shape, I thought, but I could see nothing the clearer for it.

“What can you tell me about the Barcazas company?” Holmes pressed.

“It’s a large group, based in South America. They came up three weeks back from Santiago. They showed a great deal of interest in my prototype, and they seemed wealthy enough to do good business with.”

“And able to make a fair deal on your invention,” Holmes hummed. “What would a good price have been, for this revolutionary machine of yours?”

Mr. Robinson suddenly looked as if he were edging towards a fit, his complexion flaring a deep red. “For God’s sake, sir, it’s priceless! They’re lucky I was willing to part with it for the price we agreed upon! It could change the very world we live in!” The man sighed in a heavy gust, and his spine stiffened as he composed himself. “But I’m a humanitarian, you see. I was willing to give it up for sale for a decent price, so the world could make use of what I’d created.”

“I see...And you were travelling alongside this prototype to London last night.”

“Until I was booted off the bloody train!” Mr. Robinson cried, again incensed at the drop of a hat. “All because of this imbecile station master!” He pointed to the ticket office, where behind the counter, I could see a young man in a uniform wince visibly like a scolded child.

“Do you know why you and the other passengers were recalled from the train?” Holmes asked.

“No, I don’t,” Mr. Robinson said, scowling. “And frankly, I don’t care! My prototype is missing! This level of gross incompetence is completely unacceptable, and I will be suing the line _and_ that stupid station master for compensation!”

“That is within your rights,” said Holmes magnanimously. “Thank you for your cooperation, sir. My colleague and I must continue our investigation.”

“…An electrical prototype,” I said, marveling aloud once Holmes and I found a quiet corner in which to speak. “What do you make of it, Holmes?”

“The more pieces we discover, the larger the puzzle becomes,” said he, visibly relishing the point. “We must learn all we can about this evacuation of the train, Watson. The station master might be able to shed some light on the matter, wouldn’t you say?”

At that, the two of us migrated towards the ticket window. The young uniformed fellow, recipient of Mr. Robinson’s ire, watched us wearily from behind the barred window as we approached.

“Are you the station master here?” Holmes asked.

“I am, sir,” the man said anxiously, looking at my friend as if he were the next of many to lay into him about poor service. “How can I help you? If this is about the delays, I’m very sorry but—”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my partner Doctor Watson. We are here on behalf of the police about the missing train.”

The color drained from the young man’s face, his eyes going wide with recognition. “ _Sherlock Hol_ —good gracious! I—of course, please, gentlemen. Join me in my office.” At that he scarpered off to unlock and open the door, beckoning us in. The office was clean and orderly, and up close, I could see that the man was as put together as any fresh uniform I had seen. His dress clothes were spotless and pristine, and I thought he looked barely older than a university lad, let alone senior enough to run an entire train station himself.

“Gentlemen,” said the young man. “I’m Station Master Bertram. I would be happy to help you but...” He hesitated, voice dipping with uncertainty. “My supervisor has not informed me about this. I do not know if...”

“Do not worry yourself, young man,” said Holmes swiftly. “I only have a few questions. Station Master Everett, from Evesham, told us you reported a problem with some passengers last night? Which, I perceive, led to the ejection of most of them from the train?”

“Indeed,” said the young man, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion. I did not envy the master; it was never easy, to be the object of public displeasure. “This train is a regular line for those who work in Nottingham and London, and we have...many unhappy passengers. The train could not be delayed, either, for the error to be cleared up—it states very clearly in the rules, paragraph two-thirty-four of article two-G forty-three, that in the event of complaint—”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” said Holmes, voice flickering with impatience. “What we are attempting to understand is not the delay itself, but rather the reason for it. _Why_ were some passengers asked to leave the train?”

“I’m afraid I cannot say, sir.” With sudden resolve, the young man crossed his arms. “I already wrote to higher management on the matter about the incident, and my reports are confidential.”

Holmes’s impatience slid more visibly into annoyance, and I squinted at the young master, recognizing bluster when I saw it. 

“How long have you been working here, Mr. Bertram?” I asked.

“What does—I have worked here long enough to be- to be quite capable of managing a railway station, sir!”

That was answer enough. Holmes leaned forward, eyes glittering like a hunter’s upon glimpsing sign of weakness. “Let me speak frankly, Mr. Bertram,” said he, voice as smooth and cool as a winter brook. “Your age, and your lack of confidence in your position, are both quite apparent. You cannot deny that you have only recently completed your studies. Your instruction booklet is still in your front pocket.”

“What does that—” The man turned red as a tomato. “I was the top of my class!”

“And I’m certain your parents are very proud,” Holmes said dismissively. “Listen here, young man, I am aware that you wish to protect yourself behind all these regulations...but myself and the doctor, we represent the _law.”_ At his shoulder, I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. _So that’s the angle you’re going for._ Recognizing my cue, I put on the expression of firm authority I had worn in the barracks, training new recruits. 

“And you’re obstructing the investigation of an important case. I would suggest that you cooperate with Mr. Holmes to the best of your ability.” I tipped my head meaningfully. “Think of your career, Mr. Bertram.” At the last, Holmes’s eyes flickered to my face, a hint of amusement quickly dashed as he turned the full weight of his attention on the boy.

“Ahhh,” the man said, visibly crumbling. “I—ohh. That’s....” His shoulders slumped. “Fine. I apologize, Mr. Holmes. I’ll tell you all I know.”

Muscles relaxing in victory, Holmes inclined his head. “Well?”

“First of all, I scolded the ticket inspector. He asked the passengers to leave the train, and it wasn’t his right to do so even if he believed the tickets weren’t valid. And he was incredibly rude to them, it should be him taking the fury from these customers for his behavior!”

“And where is this rude inspector?” Holmes asked.

The man shook his head. “Left at the end of his shift, with me alone to face the firing squad.”

“Go on,” I pressed. “You said, ‘first of all’? Did anything else happen that night?”

“Later on, as we were trying to sort out the mess with the tickets, I received a most peculiar telegram from my colleague at Chesterfield station, the following stop on the nine o’clock train’s schedule to London.”

“What did the telegram say?”

“That was the peculiar thing, Mr. Holmes! It was almost unreadable! Full of errors, and awfully vague. It was hard to understand if the train had correctly passed that station or not. You can read it for yourself...” Striding over to his desk, he picked up a pink stamped sheet and handed it over to Holmes; he took it, and I peered over his arm to read it myself. **Cheterfild Lailvay Etacion,** it read **. Tren LNER No. 324, Arriveg a 00:39. Deuarted i 00:35.**

“Errors indeed,” I said, surprised. “The meaning’s clear enough, but it reads like a man asleep at the prompter!”

“You may be right about that,” the lad muttered. “Not to spread gossip, sir, but I’ve heard things about the Chesterfield station master. Several complaints from management about needing to follow regulations more strictly, as I’ve tried to do—and I think he’s the reason for their concern.”

“I see,” Holmes said musingly. “We shall have to interview this...mysterious station master. Chesterfield is just one station down the line, yes?”

“Two, sir, after Grisham.”

“Then we’re off. But I will be back, Mr. Bertram, if I’ve any further questions.” My friend’s stoic expression was nearly enough to make the young man quail.

“Ah. Yes, Mr. Holmes. I’m at your service.”

Holmes spun on a heel, but almost as if he had been frozen in time, he stopped mid-circle, knee bent. “Curious.”

I craned my neck to see what had seized his attention, and watched him sweep forward towards the telegram sitting alone on a desk beside the door.

“That’s—that’s not for personal use, sir,” the station master said weakly, and Holmes made a contemptuous noise under his breath.

“I do not intend to use the telegram, Mr. Bertram,” said Holmes, shaking his head. With abrupt grace, he dropped to his knees at the foot of the desk, reaching behind it and plucking an odd article of paper from the floor, where it had fallen behind the desk and lodged itself upright in the floorboards. “But it appears someone else did.”

“Ah. Yes. Mr. Robinson attempted to send a message earlier. I told him plainly he couldn’t, and he left in such a huff—”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Bertram, that will be all,” Holmes said, smoothly unfolding the paper. His eyes scanned it swiftly and within moments, he folded it once more and slid it carefully into his pocket. “I will see its return to Mr. Robinson. No doubt you should like to avoid the man at any cost.” The lad grimaced, before nodding gratefully. Rising and gesturing towards the door, I led with Holmes closing the office door behind me, and immediately found his voice in my ear.

“Outside, if you please, my dear Watson.”

Recognizing the thrill in his voice, I hastened behind him out the doors onto the breezy turnstile. “What have you found, Holmes?”

“It is a stroke of true luck, my dear fellow,” Holmes said, grey eyes glittering. “See for yourself.” He reached into his jacket and extended the paper to me, which I unfolded without delay.

“A copy of an insurance policy,” I said, eyebrows lifting. “A policy on Mr. Robinson’s invention! The ‘autonomous electricity generator’....Good lord, it’s insured for up to fifteen hundred pounds! Holmes, you don’t think—”

“Do not _guess,_ Watson,” Holmes chided. “Merely acknowledge the possibilities. And do read the thing in its entirety.”

Harrumphing, I did so, and frowned over the last lines of the document. “It says here that the loss or destruction of the prototype is only insured for up to fifty percent of its value. Still, Holmes, that’s a sizable sum.”

“I cannot disagree,” Holmes said. “I believe there is more to this prototype that Mr. Robinson has told us. Shall we?”

* * *

“Mr. Robinson, I do believe we’ve located something of yours.”

“Good God,” said Mr. Robinson, all but snatching the paper from Holmes’s hands. “The policy—where did you find this? It shouldn’t have left my pocket!”

“It was below the desk, near the telegraph station.”

“I must have misplaced it when I tried to send a message earlier—which I was prevented from doing! Blasted little upstart!” The man hollered the last towards the ticket office, where from behind the window, young Master Bertram cringed.

“I apologize, sir,” he stuttered from a distance. “But regulations that public access to the telegraph is strictly prohibited—”

“Upon my word, you keep digging that hole of yours!” Robinson snapped. “You have no idea who I am! You’ve crossed the wrong man too many times! It’s a disgrace, I tell you, and your superiors _will_ hear about it! Denied my fare! Denied a telegram! Denied keeping my _own_ luggage on my person!”

Holmes leaned forward like a willow trunk in the breeze. “Your luggage, sir?”

“Another _regulation_ ,” Robinson said acidly. “Important documents, and I can’t keep them because my bag was ‘oversized’! It was no larger than that whelp’s head, I tell you! Unacceptable!”

“My condolences,” Holmes said, and I thought even for him, the sympathy in his voice was withered. He turned to me. “Watson, I believe we must be off to the next station.”

I sighed, knowing that it was unlikely for us to stumble across a modest country delicatessen on the way. “Once more onto the breach.”

We left the station, and my arm had already lifted to summon a cab when Holmes grabbed me by the sleeve and carefully drew it down.

“One final thing, Watson, before we depart.” He pressed his face close to mine, so I could hear his whisper above the gale. “I must check something, and I’m afraid you are going to disapprove of the manner in which I mean to do it.”

“Unless it’s criminal, well, I don’t suppose—” The dancing light in his eyes had me trailing off short.

“Only minorly, my dear fellow,” he said. 

“Now I’m afraid I _must_ insist on lunch after.”

Holmes clasped a gloved hand on my shoulder, a faint smile unwinding across his face. “You are a master negotiator, doctor. I concede to your terms, on the account that you keep watch.”

“Keep watch where?”

His small smile twisted into a broader grin. “Why, outside the luggage room, of course.”

* * *

“We shall call it _force majeure,_ my dear man, if you are concerned about the courts.”

“I shan’t have to, if you make haste,” I said, not for the first time wondering when I had become a man who would feel exasperated rather than appalled in the midst of committing a crime. As my eyes scanned the hall outside of the luggage room, I conceded it was very likely the first week I had moved into Baker Street.

“You know you become quite pointed when you’re stressed, Watson? Calm yourself, I’ve already located the bag. Mr. Robinson’s eccentric taste extends to his luggage, as I suspected.”

“What do you suspect you’ll find?” I hissed the words through my teeth, leaning with forced, casual ease on my cane.

“One never knows for certain, but within moments, I shall tell you whether or not our Mr. Robinson has a larger part to play in this affair. _Aha.”_ I heard the telltale clicking of a lock and the double-thump of a briefcase’s latches swinging open, and in the corner of my eye saw Holmes’s shadowy figure stooped over an open, metal-plated travel bag. A quick rifling of papers, and I heard a low, devilish chuckle issue from behind me.

“Well, well, Mr. Robinson,” Holmes purred. “What a predicament you’ve found yourself in.”

“... _Holmes,_ ” I said lowly.

Papers shuffling, the resounding click of a closing briefcase, and Holmes was sidling by me and closing the door behind him, as seamless as a snake.

“What did you find?” I asked, as Holmes hooked his arm around mine without prompting and set us off on a march towards the exit.

“Evidence that suggests Mr. Robinson is yet another victim in this affair,” said Holmes, electric in energy as he threw up his arm for a cab. “Though it appears he brought much of his own suffering upon himself.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I wondered what sort of “important documents” Mr. Robinson might be keeping among his things, and he was right to desire them kept close. Their revelation is the only thing that would prove more ruinous to him than his prototype going missing.” He shot me a prideful glance. “A shame he did not invest in a sounder baggage lock.”

“Ruinous how, Holmes?” I pressed.

“Mr. Robinson’s “revolutionary” prototype holds no less than _four_ exclusive contracts for its rights of ownership and production.” A cab slowed to a halt before us. “Four exclusive contracts, with four different businesses—and all, of course, paid in advance.”

“Good Lord.”

Schadenfreude tilted Holmes’s mouth into a smirk. “A very effective little scheme, I will say. It is no wonder he’s desperate to leave. Four different companies are going to be coming to call on him for his invention, and no doubt they will be very displeased to learn he does not possess it.”

“Four exclusive contracts,” I repeated, shaking my head in disbelief as Holmes aided me into the cab with a bent arm. “Ambitious fellow, isn’t he?”

“Chesterfield station!” Holmes volleyed, clambering in after me.

“So losing the prototype, it could cost him everything! But Holmes—what if one of these companies became aware of what Robinson was doing?”

“We’ve no proof of it. These insurance policies, Watson...” Holmes crossed his thin legs, elbow propped on his other arm as he grasped his chin in thought. “They’re key to this, but there are yet more pieces to unearth. It seems with every stop along the line, we discover breadcrumbs...”

“And I’m certain we’ll determine the truth of it eventually,” I said firmly, and when Holmes looked up at me with a curious expression, I lifted an eyebrow. “But it shall have to wait. Recall you made a bargain with me, Holmes.”

Holmes sighed heavily, as if I had handed him some great burden. “You and your fixation on meals,” he muttered.

“I will not have it, Holmes. You are finally well, and I intend to keep you that way.”

His childish grimace faded lightly, subverted with the distant veneer of fondness. “You are a taskmaster. But let it be said I am a man of my word.”

I _hmm’d_ in agreement, taking out my notebook, and bit down a smile as I pressed my knee against his in thanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A building case, and tenderness between our two leads. <3
> 
> So I fiddled with things by way of plot but not in any super apparent way to players of the game. I also decided to directly address the random racism that was put in the game with disapproval from Holmes and Watson (rather than just erasing it from the narrative), because while it's period typical for the time that doesn't mean characters can't react to it with morality.


	3. III

**chapter three**

We arrived at Chesterfield Station a half hour after lunch, a respectable spot of meat and cheese with tea at a small, charming baker’s shoppe nearby. Holmes was persuaded to eat a handful of crackers with gruyere and salted pork, sulking the entire while, until he all but dragged me out by the collar to return to the work.

Chesterfield was the smallest of all the modest towns along the line we had seen so far, and its station—though identical to its sisters in nearly every respect—was dark and quiet when we arrived. The sun outside had vanished behind mounting nimbus clouds, a curtain of darkness rolling across the placid English plains, and inside I could not help but notice how unwelcoming the place felt in comparison to its neighbors along the London route. Its hearth was middling, unattended, and the cool temperature from outside leaked into its walls to drape a low, unpleasant sort of chill around us as we approached the ticket counter in the empty hall.

Holmes peered inwards through the bars, mouth pressed in a line. “I see no master,” he observed. “Negligent, perhaps?”

“Or on his break?” I suggested, uncertain. I leaned against the window, finding no sign of an attendant in the small ticket office.

“Hello?” I called, my voice echoing in the hollow space, and Holmes and I exchanged glances. Humming in thought, my friend abandoned the ticket booth and paced towards the station master’s office door. Reaching for it, he gave its golden knob a tentative twist, and lifted a slow eyebrow when it opened.

“Unlocked, and no attendant,” I muttered. “Let’s go in, Holmes.”

Nodding, he pushed it open, and we streamed inside to find an office in disarray. Rubbish sat in piles strewn from every corner, loose bottles and crumpled papers, and lying face-first on his desk in the corner sat the master, limp as death.

“Well,” Holmes said, voice dry. “That could certainly explain a few things.”

Alarmed, I drew quickly to the man’s side, already reaching for the pulse in the man’s wrist before I was overwhelmed by a powerful stench.

“Good heavens. He must have swallowed half a distillery.” I coughed a bit on the rank stink of malt liquor emanating from the man’s uniform. His breath seemed to curl the very hairs in my nose.

“Indeed,” Holmes said, cool eyes scanning the room.

“It appears the rumors Master Bertram mentioned underserved the issue,” I said disparagingly. Leaning as close as I could stomach, I cleared my throat by the man’s ear. When this failed to rouse him, I sighed and prodded his shoulder. The master harrumphed, his guttural snores stuttering, but did not arise from deep, liquor-induced slumber.

“The time for a soft hand has passed, I believe,” Holmes said, somewhat amused, and tilted his head meaningfully.

Exasperated, I raised my voice. “Wake up,” I said, giving him a proper shake. “Come on, now!”

The man spluttered and groaned, glassy eyes flickering open with visible effort. “Whazzit...I’m up! I’m up! The seventy-two train in?”

“Good Lord.” I shook my head, disdainful, as Holmes looked upon him as one might a stain on the carpet.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said, with acerbic pleasantry. “Loathe as my colleague and I are to disturb you, we are investigating the disappearance of last night’s train, and we require your assistance.”

“...ger me sideways,” the man garbled, squinting up at us with a foul expression on his ruddy face. I scowled down at him, repulsed by the vulgar display. “Yeah? What is it, don’t have all day.”

“Were there any passengers who got off before Bridlington last night?”

“Any—any passengers?” the man repeated dumbly.

“Watson, you might have to fetch this fellow some water. Heaven knows what dehydration could do to a brain as needy as this one.” I rolled my eyes and Holmes sighed. “Passengers, on the nine o’clock train last night. Did any deboard in your station?”

The master’s brow furrowed, his bleary eyes blinking slowly in thought. “Nooo. No, I don’t believe so. But then, I didn’t exactly leave my office, so it’s...possible, s’pose.”

“No doubt you were extremely busy,” I said dryly, and the corner of Holmes’s mouth twitched.

“You’re tellin’ me!” the station master slurred, my tone having clearly gone over his slosh-ridden head. “Can’t get any peace round here, always something or another! Now, you have to send a telegram every time a train comes and goes, proper bure-bureau—proper paperwork _nonsense.”_

“How tedious for you,” Holmes deadpanned. “Station Master Bertram from Bridlington showed us a strange telegram that he received from you last night, sir. It concerned the missing train, but it was barely comprehensible.”

“Uptight little twerp,” the station master said, venom infusing his voice as he endeavored to sit upright. “Always harpin’ on about the smallest mistakes that don’t matter. I remember the train comin’ in and I sent the message, a’right? It was late and I was tired, but y’know what, I do my work proper! Little upstart’s just petty and lookin’ for praise.”

Holmes’s eyes flashed. “You were not ‘tired’. You were inebriated.”

The man reeled back in offense, practically sprawling in his office chair. “I was not—” 

"The flask in your pocket and orgy of empty bottles strung about this station tell a different story, sir,” Holmes said cuttingly. “Tell the truth now, or I shall not hesitate to document your pitiful state in our report.”

“A report which will find its way into the hands of your superiors,” I added, crossing my arms with authority. “And I doubt you will emerge with your position intact, especially as an entire train disappeared on your watch!”

The wretched man paled, his ruddy expression draining to a sickly pallor. “Awright, awright!” he cried, folding in on himself. “So I was drunk! But it don’t change nothing, you hear! The train came and I sent the message, that’s it!” He twisted his wedding ring fitfully, looking distressed. “Go easy on me, eh? I’ve been workin’ here for years now, this job is all I got for the family.”

Holmes sighed heavily. “I shall make no promises, sir. But with your continued cooperation, perhaps I can...summon some lenience.” Eyes flickering to mine, he subtly tilted his head towards the door, and at that, we left the miserable man where he sat, quietly moving into the empty meeting hall.

“Holmes, that man’s as drunk as a lord,” I said, shaking my head. “That train might have never come through Chesterfield at all and we’d hardly be the wiser.”

“I agree,” Holmes said. “I think we could benefit from a search about the premises. There was something…off about the station master’s office, Watson…”

“You mean besides the mess, the stench, and the odious drunkard?” I quipped.

“Mmm, actually, it is precisely those things to which I refer. There’s something missing from this picture, Watson, and I believe we could find it, should we set ourselves to the task. Every station has a luggage room, repair room, and storage room. Take the former, Watson, and I shall search the latter two. Meet me back here by the hour.”

I nodded, and we branched apart. It had become habit to reassure myself of the weight of my service pistol in my pocket whenever Holmes and I were separated on a case, and so I found myself fingering it unconsciously in my pocket as I headed towards the luggage room. The wind outside had picked up force, battering the hall glass windows with a low, winding wail, and I found myself hoping that we would return to the inn soon, before the oncoming storm took the entire countryside in a deluge. 

I found the luggage room quickly, unsurprisingly unlocked considering the master’s conduct, and once inside I squinted in the low light for anything unusual. The shelves where luggage was stored were barren, and all I could see in the dark was a burlap sack, thrown across the floor over something misshapen and lumpy. Frowning, I lifted the sack by its corner with the edge of my cane, pulling it away only to immediately wrinkle my noise at the cloying scent of alcohol. More rubbish bottles: wine bottles, to be exact. The station master was an even bigger drunk than first appeared—and quite sloppy too, to leave them in the luggage room so carelessly.

Satisfied I’d found nothing of import, I returned to the meeting room to find Holmes already waiting for me, and the riveted manner in which his gaze found mine told me his search had been far more successful.

“Anything interesting, Watson?”

I shook my head. “Just some hidden wine bottles hidden away. Bone dry. The stash of a practicing alcoholic.”

“Wine bottles,” Holmes hummed. His brow wrinkled, before his eyes flew open and flared like gaslamps. “Show me.”

“The bottles?” I repeated, confused, but without waiting Holmes was off, long legs taking him towards the luggage room in ardent strides. I followed him and watched him cast aside the burlap just as I did, seizing a bottle and lifting it into view.

“My, my,” Holmes said, turning the label into the light. He took an experimental sniff near the bottle’s lip, and his eyes brightened like sunlight glinting off the Channel. “ _Yes_ , that’s it. This bottle, my dear Watson, is an 1873 French import that our station master could not purchase with a month’s wages. And yet, his office reeks with the smell of it.” He looked downwards to the other bottles which lay empty at our feet. “Either he has been stealing wine from the luggage of travelers undetected for weeks, or the station master has made a friend willing and able to sustain his aristocratic tastes.”

“Who could possibly want to ply _that_ man with expensive drink?” I asked, bewildered.

“An excellent question, my dear.” Holmes looked up at me, eyes twinkling, and my heart thumped with familiar attraction at the sight of his approving silver gaze on mine. “I believe you and I are well up to the task of getting some answers out of him." A cunning minor curl stretched his mouth, and my chest tightened as my desire to return to the inn intensified with a new design.

“I found something myself in the storeroom—a curious collection of tools, muddy and recently used. The station master hardly seems the kind to stay on top of arduous maintenance, and yet…” Holmes shook his head, his mind visibly turning over gears. “Let us have another word with the station master. Then Watson, we have an experiment to perform.”

“An experiment?” I echoed, and Holmes did not pause to explain, and I was helpless but to follow his trail back to the station master’s office. 

"The dirty tools in the storeroom,” he said, announcing himself like a thrown dagger as he charged through the door. “Why are they there?”

“Tools?” The man blinked rapidly before flushing a disconcerting magenta. “Oh! The tools, yes! I’d almost forgotten about them, I need to clean those off and put them back in the work shed.” He shook his head like an old spaniel. “Might be easier just to leave ‘em outside. Smells like rain, it does.” Almost on cue, the distant crackle of thunder met my ears, rumbling lowly over our heads.

“Why were they used in the first place?”

The man hesitated, his bleary gaze wandering away from Holmes towards the floor. “Oh, y'know, just a spot of upkeep. Some workers came here earlier and borrowed ‘em from the shed.”

“When?” Holmes said sharply. When the man failed to respond quickly, he rapped his walking stick upon the man’s desk, making him jump in his seat. “Your _attention,_ sir. When did these workers perform this maintenance, and what precisely did they do?”

“It were yesterday! Earlier in my shift! They just wanted to lift the edge of some railway near one of the stations on the line, so the—so the water of the lake wouldn’t come in too close, they said.”

Holmes narrowed his eyes, leaning like a general over the man’s desk. “And who were these workers? Were they familiar to you? Had they done work for the station before?”

“Can’t say I recognized them, but they were fine lads. Friendlier than most I come across on the job.” Holmes lifted an eyebrow and I crossed my arms, and to my gratification, the man looked cowed. “They, er, invited me to share in some drink with them—and cor, whatever it was, had a right kick to it.”

“I don’t suppose it was French wine?” Holmes asked, voice sleek and insinuating. “ _Château Pomys,_ a respectable vintage. Truly a generous gift, from a group of builders on basic wages.”

The station master blanched. “How the devil’d you—”

“Describe these men,” Holmes ordered.

“I don’t remember,” the man squalled, looking less and less stable as the conversation continued. “They was a whole group! And they wasn’t English, I remember that!”

Holmes straightened on his walking stick, and for a moment he looked enough like his dismissive older brother I had to fight a small smile. 

“Very well, sir. I will note this…behavior in my report, but comfort yourself with the knowledge I will mark you down as cooperative.” He narrowed his gaze. “Providing you have told us everything.”

“I don’t know what you’re accusin’ me of,” the man cried. “I’m just a man workin’ for pay, tain’t no crime to indulge in a snifter or two! Not a real one!”

“We shall see in the coming days, sir, what real crimes have been committed here. And we _will_ return, should we find you implicated. Until then…do stay in town.”

At that, Holmes turned on a heel and glided out of the room, and I followed him without giving the dithering master a second glance.

“Do you really think he’s hiding something, Holmes?” I asked quietly, catching up to his arm.

“It cannot be ruled out, but it is just as likely he is an unwitting dupe than he is a conspirator. Regardless, the only evidence I have points to a level of strategic accomplishment, Watson, that I doubt that man capable of.”

“A conspirator? You think there’s some plot at work, then. Holmes, really, if you have pieced together any sort of answer to that missing train—”

“It’s time for our experiment, Watson,” Holmes interjected, steamrolling over me and taking me by the elbow. “And our laboratory awaits us in the repair room.”

“The repair room—” I started, frowning, and he ignored me in favor of hustling us onward—with consideration to my cane, which I found myself relying on the moment we stepped outside of the station house into what had graduated from winter breeze to full-bellied gale. The world had darkened dramatically since we’d arrived to Chesterfield, the sky a stirring cauldron of dark grey and green clouds, and my clothes were plastered to my body in a wind that tugged at our scarves like invisible anchor-chain. Moving down the turnstile, thunder muttered in the distance as Holmes reached out to throw open the repair room’s barn doors.

Inside the dark interior, I saw train parts scattered everywhere. Massive engine ports and brake replacements, steam funnels and spare wheels, and sheets of metal plating longer and wider than I was.

“Holmes…” I said doubtfully, and he turned to me with a gleam in his eye.

“Watson, tell me...do you believe in magic?”

I blinked at him with surprise, before releasing a laugh at the teasing look on his face. “Of course not, Holmes. Why?”

“You are of the opinion, then, that a train cannot simply disappear?”

“I—” I shook my head, sighing. “Logically, I agree with you. But I confess I don’t have an explanation for what we saw last night.”

“Watson, are you quite certain you saw the train at Evesham station?”

I frowned. “Yes, of course—we saw it together! It was coming down the line, I saw headlights, I even heard the whistle, if only the once.”

“But that is it, Watson. We did not see the train itself.” He inclined his hand a pile of spare wooden pieces, distinct from the metal parts which filled the entire room and which lay curiously separate on the far side of the wall. 

What is…” I felt my jaw slacken in realization. “You don’t think—surely not—”

"There is only one way to find out,” he said, and his eager expression made him look years younger. “Come, Watson. I believe we shall find all the pieces we need right here, and then we can perform a little...experiment on the tracks, to test my theory.”

It did not take us a long as I would have thought, but as a puzzle of engineering, it was natural that Holmes took to the task like an experienced mechanic. Soon, our experiment was all but finished, and as we rolled it out onto the turnstile, I could still scarcely believe its simplicity. 

“But the light, Holmes,” I said, shaking my head. “And the train whistle, I know I heard it!”

“Ah, but we’ve neglected the _piece de resistance.”_ Holmes dipped back into the repair room and returned with a very large gas headlamp, a large loose steam whistle part, and curiously, a fire extinguisher in his hands. Carefully, he hung the light on the dividing beam of our construction, affixed the steam whistle to the side on a bolt, and twisted the hose of the fire extinguisher onto a pump he’d insisted without explanation we install. Soon the pump was connected to the steam whistle in such a fashion that when Holmes squeezed the fire extinguisher trigger and pulled down our design’s handle, a shrill, familiar shriek pierced the air as pressure rattled through the whistle.

“Good Lord,” I said, shaking my head as Holmes lit the lamp for a flickering, final touch.

A perfectly assembled handcar. Completed with parts we’d found already primed for the purpose in the repair room, and fitted out with a massive light and whistle. I could barely believe I’d been fooled by it, even on so foggy a night as last night had been.

“The criminal mind can be most inventive,” said Holmes, delighted. “I’m almost in awe.”

“Remarkable, Holmes,” I said wonderingly. “...It truly is a plot, as you said. I can’t imagine someone constructing something like this on a whim—and it certainly couldn’t be done alone!”

“Not without substantial difficulty,” Holmes concurred.

“If someone went to all the trouble of creating this fake train, then it was surely with the intention of stealing the real one! Or more specifically, what stealing what was on it.” I clacked my cane on the turnstile with victory. “It must be the prototype they were after, Holmes, there is no other explanation!”

“My dearest fellow, what have I told you about jumping to conclusions? The discovery of this false train does not suggest very much at all—other than premeditation, and proof that the train did not, in fact, vanish into thin air.”

“Though you half suspected it,” I teased. “Admit it, then. Before this, you couldn’t explain it either."

Holmes chuckled, the wind tugging insistently at the ends of his scarf. “I will admit nothing. Surely after all this time, you’ve realized my own limits. At any rate, we are left with the same question, Watson. Where is the real train?”

“Indeed.”

“We must return to Evesham, Watson.”

I blinked, shocked he would suggest retiring before even coming close to running himself into the ground. “Already? But what about—”

“Because you _refused_ to allow us to bring my trunk, Watson, we must return to our rooms so that I can consult a few maps.”

“We weren’t bringing that monstrosity to every stop in the county train line, Holmes,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Whatever do you need a map for?”

“I need a more detailed map of this part of the countryside—preferably, the topography surrounding it. Luckily, I had the foresight to pick up a map of the line, and to pack several documents concerning this particular part of England for our holiday. Would you believe, Watson, that I have an increasing concern that I will be one day become completely lost in the middle of farm country?”

“It would certainly explain a few things,” I deadpanned, and Holmes scoffed, turning towards the storm front as if to physically ignore me. My face split into a grin at his expense. “And it’s perfectly paranoid. You’re truly afraid of being lost in the countryside?”

“It is a reasonable and practical concern,” Holmes huffed. “I’ve warned you about the dangers of places like these, Watson. I myself will not be caught unawares, not if I can help it. And it’s proving to be a most useful event to prepare for.”

“We shall go back to Evesham, then,” I said, sighing with no little amusement. “But then we shall rest, Holmes.” I found my eyes tugging towards the sky, my lips pressing together. “I do not like the look of the storm brewing.”

Holmes’s gaze moved up to where mine tracked the darkness broiling on the horizon. “Hmm,” he said. “Perhaps you are right, Watson. I do not like letting the trail grow colder, but...” Thunder boomed at the edges of the evening sky, the faint crackle of lightning weaving through the clouds like a glowing spider’s web. “At first light, then.”

“The country air is one thing, Holmes,” I said, taking his arm and guiding us swiftly towards the main road. “But a country storm is quite another.”

Holmes's eyes tore away from the heavens to the road, his face solemn. “You are quite right in that, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plot thickens, and the banter increases 💕
> 
> drop a comment or hmu on tumblr (@apprenticeofdoyle or @biwatson) if you guys like it so far!

**Author's Note:**

> the first of my changes was game!Mycroft's characterization--I made him more like Charles Gray from Granada (my fav) so his relationship with Sherlock is less antagonistic and lowkey elitist and more...brotherly lmao.
> 
> And I had to mock the trunk. It's preposterous.
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you like it so far, drop a comment, and if you wanna talk SH or JW, just reach out to my tumblr @apprenticeofdoyle or my SH blog @biwatson.


End file.
